


Olympic Tryouts (part 18)

by jennamacaroni



Series: Olympic Tryouts [18]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 05:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2297696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennamacaroni/pseuds/jennamacaroni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana and Brittany have been rivals in the college hockey world for the past four years.  now they’re both at Olympic tryouts to play on the same team and Boston and Minnesota just don’t get along, okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olympic Tryouts (part 18)

**Author's Note:**

> this part is a tiiiiny bit shorter than usual because i’m on my way out the door for the night and it seems like a good enough stopping point.
> 
> i have so much gratitude for every kind message and like and kudos and review i get on this story, y’all are shooting stars. thank you so much, i’d love to squeeze you all very tightly. i smile like a damn fool at every review.

All through warmups, Santana has been skating around the ice like a chicken with it’s head cut off. Her movements are frantic, her decision-making poor and the easy chemistry between herself, Brittany and Rachel is strikingly off.

“What in the hell has gotten into you, Lopez?” barks Coach Taylor after Santana tries to switch direction so fast she falls hard flat onto her butt, sprawling across the ice. “You’re skating like a damn bat outta hell! What are you, nervous or something? You’re acting like you’ve never played a dog gone hockey game before!”

“Sorry, Coach,” she mumbles, pushing herself quickly back onto her skates. “Just excited, I guess. First International game, and all.” Even her voice is in hyperspeed.

“Well, get it together already. We’ve got a game to play here and I don’t need my starting center making stupid decisions or falling on her ass all over the ice,” he huffs, shaking his head in disapproval and skating off.

Santana takes a deep breath before there’s a low voice at her shoulder. “If you don’t tell me what’s going on with you,” Quinn warns, skating up closely behind her in the fast break line, “I’m going to tell everyone on the team about our Rookie Night back in college.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Santana counters, turning to glare back at her best friend.

“Oh but I would. You have until midnight or I’m spilling to Berry and you know _that_ gossip will spread like fucking wildfire. Little Miss Perfect Lopez just isn’t so perfect, is she? And I’m sure it’ll just be a matter of time before it gets to Coach…”

“Okay, FINE, jeez. Call off the dogs, would ya? Great friend you are. Let’s just get through this game, I promise I’ll tell you after,” Santana concedes, turning back towards the team warm up just in time to see Brittany finesse past a defender and flick a quick wrist shot into the top corner of the net.

_____

Santana gets yelled at twice more by Coach Taylor before the starting lineups are introduced and even Rachel has lectured her on lack of focus.

As both teams assemble across the opposing blue lines to face the flags hanging from one end of the rink for the national anthems, Santana slys a glance sideways to Brittany standing resolutely at her right shoulder. Their sequential numbers of 7 and 8 ensure they’ll always be alongside each other for the pregame ceremonies and that thought alone makes the butterflies in Santana’s gut go wild.

Brittany looks like she’s about to crack up any minute as the music cues and the surprisingly full crowd shuffles to their feet.

“Not you too,” Santana groans, turning to face forward to hide her embarrassment.

“I didn’t even say anything!” Brittany defends not-so-innocently under her breath.

“Just spit it out,” Santana begrudges, knocking Brittany lightly in the leg pad with the blade of her stick.

“You look like you’ve got a screw loose out there,” says Brittany, failing to suppress a giggle. “Joe Cool.”

Santana’s face burns a darker shade of red. “I don’t understand how you’re so calm!” she counters, exasperated. Kissing in dark bedrooms while their linemate is four feet away in the next bed, talk about playing with fire.

Brittany dips her shoulder so she’s close enough to nudge their helmets together before whispering, “I always knew I was going to kiss you, Santana, it was only a matter of when.” Santana loses her focus at the feel of Brittany’s breath against her ear and her stomach swoops. “I got past the freaking out part forever ago,” she teases.

With that Santana turns incredulously towards her, catching a wink and a smirk as Brittany is quick to straighten up again just in time for the opening bars of the Star Spangled Banner, acting like she had said nothing significant at all.

_____

As it turns out, the American team was not going to have as smooth of a go against Finland as they had enjoyed the week prior against Colorado. The Finnish players were bigger, faster and more experienced playing together than the young United States team, and Santana’s general lack of focus seems to have become contagious across much of the team.

Their passing was disjointed, the energy level low and all of the momentum seemed to reside on the Finnish side of the puck. At the end of the first period, team USA trails by a score of two to nothing and Santana stares at the floor between her skates as Coach Taylor paces back and forth silently in the middle of the locker room.

When he finally stops, everyone seems to hold their breath.

“Who are we playing right now, Pierce?” he asks, settling on Brittany who is too amped up to sit and is instead leaning against the wall by the door back towards the ice, her helmet tucked under her arm.

“Finland, Coach,” she answers clearly, anger and a touch of frustration in her tone.

“You’re DAMN RIGHT, FINLAND,” he shouts, throwing his clipboard to the ground with a slam, a few of the papers fluttering out across the floor. “I don’t know where all y’alls heads are at right now, but it sure as HELL isn’t out on that ice right now. Johnson, you stick better on Linnen or I’ll find someone who will. Jones, both of those goals were garbage and we both know it. Gotta be better.” Mercedes nods stoically in agreement. “And Lopez, I’ve already had to talk to you once, so I won’t say this again: get your head out of your ass or you can sit the bench the rest of the game, do you hear me?”

Santana lifts her head to make eye contact and answers with a stern, “yes, Coach.”

She meets Brittany’s stare from across the room once he’s dismissed them and made his way back onto the ice. As the team shuffles out one by one after him, Brittany lags behind, stepping in front of Santana before she can pass.

“Let’s talk,” Brittany orders, her face drawn in determination, reaching to push Santana backwards at the shoulder and shutting the door behind her.

“Look, I get that this is crazy and feels a little out of control right now, but damn it, Santana, you’re playing like rank and moldy cheese. My little sister would be better out there on the ice than you and she’s eight years old and not a very strong skater.” Her resolution breaks slightly at that and a quick smile flashes across her features before she pushes it away. “I know you’ve got it in you, so fucking get it together already and let’s go all Beavis and Butthead on these Scandinavian marshmallows.”

Santana laughs loudly at Brittany’s frustrated huff before pushing on her helmet and clipping the mask into place. “Let’s go get em, then, Britt,” she agrees, pulling on both gloves and hip checking Brittany on her way back out onto the ice.


End file.
